


sunlight peering through trees

by worry



Category: Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: Awkward First Times, Emotional Sex, Healing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2019-01-06 22:02:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12219825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/worry/pseuds/worry
Summary: "Have you ever thought about… making love.”Turlough’s gaze shoots up to the ceiling.“Did I do something wrong?”“No,” he assures, and now he’s studying the Doctor underneath him, every place where they touch and meet and love. “Not at all. It’s just… no one has ever said it like that.” His voice breaks. He feels safe enough, to let his voice break. “I’ve never been with anyone who cared about me.”





	sunlight peering through trees

“Do you,” the Doctor whispers into his cheek, pulling him closer (he’s so warm) (he is so  _ warm _ ), “feel safe now?”

 

“Do you?” Turlough asks, sleepily. He is so warm; he had melted, into the Doctor’s arms, after another nightmare of the Black Guardian’s demise.  _ I never wanted to hurt you.  _ I know.  _ I am so sorry.  _ I’m glad you’re still alive.  _ I tried to kill myself so I wouldn’t have to kill you. I’m a coward. You are everything that I’m not.  _ What do you mean?  _ You’re - brave. And - worthy. _

 

He’s so  _ warm. _

 

“You know the answer to that,” he responds. “Please don’t make me repeat myself… again.”

 

“But I like hearing your voice.”

 

_ I think you’re worthy of everything. What you did - when you chose me - you were brave. _

 

Did you know that I’d choose you over the diamond?

 

_ Not certainly. But. I believed in you, always. _

 

“Then I’ll say anything you want me to. Just not ‘I trust you’. I thought you’d have figured it out by now. That I do trust you, I mean.”

 

Turlough turns over roughly, puts his head against the Doctor’s chest. Oh. He is so warm. They are both so warm.  _ I love you— _

 

He does not say I love you. Turlough is warm, against him; _it has been so long since he has been touched like this, gently._ _Turlough says he is worthy, and he believes it. The universe continues with them, together and solemn, tangled together solemnly on a soft bed, the universe is both of them tangled together, the universe is as vast as the walls of this room and oh the Doctor l o v e s him, wants to be here forever. Forevers are haunting when you can travel in time, but - he would - sacrifice his forevers - if it meant that he could hold Turlough just a little bit longer._ Yes, I believed in you. I saw something in you… _and I wasn’t wrong oh my mind is bottomless and timesick and I can never_

 

_ fall _

 

_ into it. _

 

“Then kiss me,” Turlough says.

 

The Doctor smiles; Turlough is even warmer against him as they kiss and touch and hunger. He reaches over to touch Turlough’s face, runs his thumb over Turlough’s cheek. He can feel the frailness of Turlough underneath his hands. He wants to stitch new skin onto old skin  _ —  _ he wants  _ —  _ his skin is stained glass, like something to kneel to. Turlough is thin and fragile & the Doctor thickens his skin, holds him up to the light and sees the wondercolor of every glass shard, every thick, pink scar. Deerlike, running leg-shaken out into the open woods. The Doctor wants  _ —  _ but he cannot fix depths of trauma with love. He must simply  _ love,  _ I love you, I really do, I _ — _

 

Turlough pulls himself onto the Doctor’s hips, light-fast, removing the Doctor’s hands from his face and placing them on his thighs. The Doctor grips them, instinctively, because  _ “ _ wanting” is the biggest instinct - he wants to fix things, he wants to save worlds and civilizations and individual lives, even when some things are too void and tainted to be extricated. He wants to salvage every part of good in others. He wants to believe in the black-and-white, total pure idea of “good”. He wants an instinct to want and Turlough’s forehead rests against his, redeeming his instincts entirely.

 

The Doctor pulls away. “Turlough, do you ever think about…”

 

“Fucking you?”

 

“Well… I'd phrase it differently.” He looks up into Turlough’s eyes, feels like he was made to fit underneath Turlough’s body. “Have you ever thought about… making love.”

 

Turlough’s gaze shoots up to the ceiling. His body begins to shake.

 

“Did I do something wrong?”

 

“No,” he assures, and now he’s studying the Doctor underneath him, every place where they touch and meet and love. “Not at all. It’s just… no one has ever said it like that.” His voice breaks. He feels safe enough, to let his voice break. “I’ve never been with anyone who actually cared about me.”

 

_ Glass.  _ “Oh. Turlough…”

 

“...you do, right?”

 

He presses a kiss to Turlough’s forehead, soft. “Of course I do.” He thinks for a moment. “I think about it very often, personally.”

 

“I do too,” Turlough says, and he rarely smiles but when he does it looks like the entire universe, finally at peace, stars and planets forming from his teeth and lips. Oh.

 

Turlough kisses him again, runs his hands through the Doctor’s hair. 

 

“You know,” the Doctor whispers, Turlough on his neck now, “it’s been a very long time since I’ve…”

 

“How long?”

 

“Since I was my second self… which was three regenerations ago. So, ah, quite a while.”

 

“Wait, Doctor… how old are you?”

 

“I think it would probably kill the mood if I told you.”

 

“That’s fine,” Turlough says. “I don’t really care.”

 

“How are we, um, uh. Going to, um.”

 

Turlough smirks. “Yes, Doctor?”

 

“You know…”

 

“Don’t tell me you’re getting shy now,” Turlough says, reaches down to grab the waist of the Doctor’s pants, “I think that’s quite attractive, though.”

 

“Turlough, stop.”

 

“What?”

 

“I don’t want this to be about me. I want to show you how much I care for you.”

 

Turlough places his hand on the Doctor’s shoulder. “No offense, but you can’t even say the word ‘fuck’, how _ — _ ”

 

“I have no problem with saying ‘fuck’,” the Doctor tells him. “I just refuse to. I don’t want it to be dirty or rough. Not our first time, at least. I want it… I can only assume what your previous, ah, experiences have been like. I want you to feel loved. You don’t have to do anything.”

 

“Okay,” Turlough says. “Um… okay, sure. What are you going to do to me?”

 

“Sit on the edge of the bed.”

 

Turlough shudders at the order; the release of pressure when he climbs off of the Doctor is holy, unholy, holy. He can never fall into his mind. He wants to worship every part of Turlough’s body, inside and inside and out and out. The evidence that Turlough is loved in the form of soft bruises along his skin, the Doctor’s mouth underneath Turlough’s armor, Turlough breathing and gasping for him, to be loved. To feel the love. For release. For a final feeling of serenity; he does not deserve to be hurt, he is good, he is good, he is good.

 

Turlough starts to pull his clothing off - the Doctor rests a hand on his thigh, stops him gently, imagines Turlough melting underneath him. “Let me do it.”

 

He gives a slight nod and, the Doctor can tell, tries his best to relax; he looks entirely impatient, but always too stubborn to beg.  _ This is love, truly.  _ The Doctor slips his hands underneath Turlough’s nightshirt, tugs it off slowly.

 

Then he kneels, and Turlough does gasp. The room is soundless. The room is white, and Turlough’s body is an altar,  _ oh,  _ a scarred shrine to kiss and nip at. He presses his mouth to Turlough’s chest _ — _

 

and Turlough breaks out in laughter, shaking. “That feels weird.”

 

“In a bad way?”

 

“No.” He smiles. “I’m just sensitive there, it’s fine.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Extremely,” Turlough replies, puts his hands on the Doctor’s shoulders;  _ keep going, touch me.  _

 

_ Sensitive,  _ the Doctor thinks, and kisses him again: every part of Turlough’s chest as he giggles (beautiful, pure), all over his stomach, down to the outside of his hips and the curve of them; Turlough has the softest skin that the Doctor has ever felt, and he’d lay himself down here, at Turlough’s feet, the insides of his thighs, endless, if he could. If he could. 

 

He pushes his fingers down underneath the waistband of Turlough’s pants, pulls them off slowly, pressing soft kisses to his legs all the way down.  _ Endless. If he could. _

 

It  _ has  _ been a long time since he’s done this; his last partner, however, was much more patient than Turlough, since he currently has his hands on the Doctor’s cheeks, in his hair,  _ I need you, now. I l— _

 

Well. He’ll improvise.

 

“Just tell me if it feels okay,” he says; Turlough is staring down at him, beautifully, and he knows that the Doctor on his knees, between Turlough’s legs, is not an unfamiliar image in Turlough’s mind, beautiful mind. The stare drills holes into him; he could get off on simply watching the desire in Turlough’s face froth, could make it so  _ good— _

 

He takes Turlough into his mouth and it sets a spark - he’s  _ loud,  _ now, voice melodic and unsteady.  _ Feels - good. So good. You’re so good.  _ He sounds divine even when he’s breathing profanity, he sounds divine with the Doctor’s name chord-repeat on his lips, he sounds like oceans and stars glittering, every wondrous existence in sound. He is every wonderous existence, and every wondrous existence breathes faster and faster, moves faster and faster, grips harder _ — _

 

and releases into the Doctor’s mouth.

 

He swallows, and takes a seat next to Turlough on the bed.

 

“That was,” Turlough starts, places his hand on top of the Doctor’s hand, “ _ really,  _ um…”

 

“Good,” the Doctor offers, “I hope.”

 

“ _ Very, _ ” replies Turlough, strike immediate. He presses his fingers against the Doctor’s lips, warm and wet. “You look good like this.”

 

“That’s strangely flattering. Thank you.”

 

“Thank  _ you, _ ” Turlough whispers, and lies against him, hugs him softly, “for trusting me.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> i love them so much


End file.
